Political writing is not really what I wanted to do here (and who are we to judge?), but I remember Cynthia.
Cynthia was someone I used to know. A lady from Northern England. The world’s biggest fan of Agatha Christie. She believed in ghosts. She had a doll house. She watched Coronation Street every night. She had a collection of Bob Dylan’s greatest ‘hits’. She had three cats.
And she simply had to vote Tory, there was no getting around it. In fact, I remember walking with her to the railway station in York and asking her that very question: “Cynthia, are you going to vote for Conservatives?”
And Cynthia, who had seventeen copies of Murder On Orient Express on her book shelves and who loved those cats as if they were her children and who told me there was a ‘spectre’ living in my room, told me this:
“I would rather slit my wrists than vote for Conservatives”.
In fact, she showed me exactly how she would do it. So vivid I still shudder from the memory.
However, something tells me we won’t be seeing rivers of blood flowing into the Thames tomorrow. Which is a sure sign of what Britain did yesterday. It fucked up.